


Christmas Past

by yasukematsuda



Category: The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Mid-Mockingjay, Pre-Mockingjay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-09 11:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5537534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yasukematsuda/pseuds/yasukematsuda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She remembered hearing bells...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Past

**Author's Note:**

> New Year's draft cleanout; hope everyone had a nice holiday and can excuse the sappy characterization of these two...

She remembered hearing bells.

Christmas bells, the kind that spread from the local church and seeped into every corner of District Thirteen. The kind that made every person feel a swell of holiday reverence regardless of their own state of yuletide merriness.

While Alma Coin had never had much interest in big, drawn out celebrations, she couldn’t deny that the winter seasons boosted her spirit just a bit more. Her holidays were mostly spent with her family; a morning mass followed by her daughter opening gifts, a family dinner (cooked by her husband, of course. It was long decided by the couple that, to avoid burning down their house, he would be in charge of kitchen chores while she would handle the monetary affairs). Afterwards, a gift exchange between the two, then bed.

It was just as meticulously planned out as every other day, but it always felt different. Better.

She remembered waking up early to sneak above ground and walk with her husband in the fresh snow, surveying the bulk of District Thirteen as they went. Coin was always perceptive to the ever-growing amount of peacekeepers in the area, but there was a certain lightness in the days leading up to Christmas that made her notice more around her. The other residents she saw on her way up and their daily routines, the sounds of the birds, the spread of the surrounding forests. The dull greys of the district were washed out by tinsil and handmade wreaths, shipped in from the other districts or made by schoolchildren killing class time before winter break.

She remembered her daughter’s excitement at receiving a new toy or dress ( _ the one with the blue checkerboard pattern that she got as a gift on her seventh Christmas, _ Coin recalled,  _ was always her favorite _ ) or getting to play with the other children in the field outside the church. She remembered watching the girl wave from across the expanse of grass as she wrung her hands anxiously, as any mother does.

And she remembered staring into the closet in her room she’d hid her daughter’s presents in each year for a full hour. She would always purchase gifts a month ahead of time; preparedness was vital for a woman like Coin, after all. Placement, too. Any hours Coin and her husband weren’t home, their daughter wasn’t home either, so the closet of her husband and hers’ room was ideal. As she did in so many other aspects of her life, Alma Coin thought of everything possible when preparing for holidays, she took everything into account.

Everything but the idea an illness would hit the district suddenly. Everything but Snow’s neglect.

Everything but the loss of the gift’s recipient.

The hospital’s counselor said that it was all a part of the grieving process, that soon enough the world would look brighter. But for Coin, every other day had always been grey, all grief had done was dilute the ones she had found color in.

Perhaps it was for the better. Holidays gave the Capitol another chance to distract the citizens of Panem from the horrors just outside their door. She was better off keeping festivities in District Thirteen to a minimum and her own interactions with them even less.

Holidays were much better spent on her own kinds of distractions; charting Capitol bombing courses, laying out raids. Productivity; it was the only way for one to truly keep their wits about them.

“Madame President?”

Though, not everyone appreciated a notion like that.

The woman turned in her desk chair to see Plutarch Heavensbee standing in the doorway.

“Not going to join in the festivities?”

She gave a cold chuckle and turned back to the file folders opened in front of her. “Polite pass, but thank you.”

He drummed his fingers on the doorway.  _ He hadn’t come with the intention of leaving quietly _ , Coin thought. Giving a small sigh, she spun around once again and forced a smile. “Is there something I can help you with?”

He took a few steps forward, a smug little smile plastered on his face. “Madame President, may I suggest-”

“Does it matter what I answer?” Her response came out more bitter than intended.

He moved further into the room. “It might… put residents more at ease if they were to see their president participating in the festivities, as well.”

“I’ll be sure to make an announcement later wishing everyone a happy holiday. Thank you, Mister Heavensbee.” She put a certain emphasis on his name that only made him more childishly inclined to stick around her bunker longer.

Plutarch raised and eyebrow and made himself comfortable in the chair facing her desk. “That entire party down there is thanks to your efforts, don’t you at least want to see how it turned out?” He surveyed her expression as he rocked casually in the seat.

Clearly avoiding his question, she nodded towards the paper plate he held.

“Where did you get that?”

“Hm?” He looked down at small cake atop the plate in his hand. “Oh.” His smug look returned. “Looks like your Mockingjay picked up a thing or two about baking from Mellark.” Coin tried to hold her emotionless expression, but couldn't help a look of curiosity crossing her face.

“It's fruitcake. Katniss and her mom made it.”

The president nodded, unimpressed, and looked back down to the papers laid out in front of her.

Plutarch pressed on, “With all due respect-”

“Prefacing a statement with that doesn’t make it any more respectful, I’d think you of all people would know that by now.” She looked up at him with a sarcastic smile.

The other chuckled, making eye contact with her. Coin had no reason to want to be festive. Nothing about the holidays was tidy or methodical or based; things Alma Coin based her life around but her resistance to even making an appearance made him all the more curious. Plutarch cocked his head, breaking her gaze.

“Just don’t celebrate the holidays?” He shrugged and folded his hands in front of himself. “That’s fair. Though, I must admit, Madame President, you always struck me as the casual family get together type-”

“Will you  _ please _ just drop it.” Coin’s voice raised ever so slightly and her fists tightened before she could catch herself.

_ A slip of the tongue. _

It was subtle, but nothing a former gamemaker couldn't catch.

"If there's something you must learn down here, it's that not all _secrets_ need to come to light." Her eyes narrowed, "Some are worth keeping for everyone's benefit."

His smirk subsided. Plutarch had never seen Coin in anything other than a state of complete, unbroken composure. He had gotten much too caught up in the exchange and what he’d expected to glean a bit of knowledge from evoked a twinge of guilt in his gut instead. He hadn’t meant to say that; no, he was a lot of things but he wasn’t a sadist. It’d slipped his mind that Coin’s apathy for the holidays could have run deeper than a simple lack of Christmas cheer.

He didn’t apologize. Sincere apologies never came easy to him given he was, more often than not, in the right but the quiet between them gave Coin a clue that Plutarch was feeling more than foolish. His mouth opened slightly, in a failed attempt at talking, in a feigned attempt at appearing remorseful. Either way, her tensed posture immediately relaxed at his veiled state of surrender and she gave an annoyed little sigh.

The woman stood from her seat and approached the former gamemaker, watching his  eyes moved up and down, studying her and her every movement. Even whilst mildly disoriented, he remained ever-vigilant to her next move.

She placed a hand on his arm, moving her thumb back and forth gently over his sleeve before pulling him into a silent kiss.  _ Surprised? _   No, nothing in District Thirteen could ever surprise Plutarch Heavensbee. He was a chess player, he doubted he could feel surprise anymore.

Confusion, rather. Alma Coin’s actions, themselves, were not what confused him as much as her motives. The motives of a woman who’d known loss and was still willing to go to war, the motives of a rebel who, clearly, had much loftier goals.

_ The motives of a person who avidly avoided closeness... _

Perhaps confusion was her intent. As much as he prided himself on his own skillful ways of keeping an upper hand wherever he went, Plutarch could admit that Coin had far surpassed him in that field.

He broke the kiss first, mind still pondering each idea, but kept himself pressed up against her a good minute after. Coin didn't mind. He was warm and soft and she could feel him shifting his weight from foot to foot; likely lightheaded from such an abrupt act. They stood in silence a few seconds more before she spun around and sat back down at her desk chair.

Plutarch’s breathing began to steady as he finally allowed himself to take the long standing hint and exit the room. Looking back from the door he gave a quick nod towards her.

“Merry Christmas, Madame President.”

For a split second, her smile nearly looked sincere.

“You as well, Mister Heavensbee.”


End file.
